


Under Control

by bugmadoo



Series: G*llavich Week 2015 [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5x09, Additional Scene, Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Missing Scene, POV Second Person, remember that scene in front of the hospital that got cut?, this is my version of it basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugmadoo/pseuds/bugmadoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks at you for a short second, his eyes watery, but he quickly casts his eyes down at the floor, shaking his head. It reminds you of the way he looked when he admitted himself into the psych ward, when he couldn’t really look you in the eyes, when he looked like he was about to dissolve into the air at any second.</p><p>//5x09 additional scene in front of the hospital and at the Gallagher house</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Control

**Author's Note:**

> Written for G*llavich Week 2015 Day 3: You're The Boss
> 
> Named after the song by The Strokes of the same title

You have to jog a little to catch up to him since his legs are longer than yours are, and he had a few seconds head start. He’s always been faster than you have been, especially during these last few months when it got Bad and it somehow doesn’t surprise you that he’s walking that quickly again now.

He pushes the doors of the clinic open before he finishes putting on his jacket, and you hurry with yours because you know the anger and frustration that he must be feeling right now. You don’t understand it but you know it – always have – and you don’t want him to feel alone right now. Maybe you’re already too late for that, though.

Your eyes catch his back and the shade of his hair just as he angrily rounds the corner of the building, so you start running this time to catch up with him. There is still a fear inside of you that you can’t quite shake, a little voice in your head that is telling you this could be the last you will see of him for a while. A part of you is always scared of him running again, and you do feel guilty about it, but there are more important things to deal with for now, so you ignore it and push it down the best you can.

“Ian, slow down, Jesus Christ!”

He doesn’t listen to you and continues down the alley between two buildings, taking long strides that are still slow enough that you can’t call it running yet. So you do the Half Jog Half Walk thing that always amuses you when you see other people do it, and pull him back by his shoulder, willing him to just stop for a minute and let me make sure you’re alright.

When he turns around and you finally see his face for the first time since the nurse had thrown numbers at him that were too big, and for a split second, you wish that he still had his back to you. He’s positively fuming with rage and what you think is frustration. You instinctively know that he’s going to lash out at you since you’re the closest living thing around, and because you have a lifetime of experience when it comes to people lashing out at you – one name in particular bitterly ringing in the back of your head – you can’t even blame him. You may not really understand it, but you get it anyway.

“The fuck you want, Mickey?”

He spits it out like it’s an accusation. Of what? You really don’t know.

“Just slow down, man,” you say, trying not to anger him any further than he already has been, even though you don’t really like the tone he used because you haven’t done anything wrong. You do that a lot these days – put him before yourself.

This time, he listens to you and just stands there in the middle of the alley, looking pensive and angry and still, all at the same time, he’s still as beautiful as you have always thought he was, only in this moment, it seems more like he’s made out of beautiful pieces instead of being one whole beautiful being, but it doesn’t make a difference to you because either still makes him the most important person in your life.

He takes a pack of smokes out of the pocket of his jacket and lights it, the muscles of his face carving a deep look on his face as he stares on the ground and walks a few steps to lean his back against the adjacent building. He hands you the pack of cigarettes, and you light one as well. It makes you realize how badly you’d been craving the smoke in your lungs, calming your jittery nerves as you let out a long breath.

Both of you just stand there for a while, smoking, but his silence is starting to bug you. One of you is always babbling about everything and nothing, although it was him more often than you, since he always had more to say. You also haven’t spoken about it yet. His diagnosis. You know he is having a hard time coming to terms with it, and you can only imagine what that must feel like. Being with him has taught you that not talking about something with him usually doesn’t end well though, so you wait.

You glance at his face from where you’re standing next to him, and he’s staring at the brick wall opposite of you, his face the perfect mask you know it can be. He looks calm but he’s probably boiling underneath the surface. You’re trying to gauge how hard the storm inside of him is raging, but you can’t really tell. The eerie calm that surrounds him freaks you out because it will only be a matter of time until his anger comes bursting out of him. You almost want it to because you know him, and bottling up his feelings has never served him well although he always does it. You’re trying to think of a way to broach this that won’t end with one of you hurt.

“Ian, talk to me man,” you tell him, hating that you have to ask him to say something when you’re usually the one telling him to shut up.

“What the hell do you want me to say?” His voice is strained and he’s still not looking at you.

“I don’t know man just,” you’re struggling for words. “I get that you’re-“

“No you don’t fucking get it, Mickey!” he explodes and you’re almost relieved.

“Were you just get told that you have to take fucking meds for the rest of your life? No! That was me! Me and my fucked up brain.” He moves from his spot against the wall and starts pacing in front of you.

“And fucking congrats to all of you who have always told me I’m Monica. I hope you’re happy now because yes, I fucking am Monica!” He threw his arms out, the last of his cigarette tumbling to the ground.

“I never said you-“

“Fuck off, Mickey.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I care about you, Ian.” You almost can’t believe you had to spell it out for him.

He huffs out a breath, turns, and starts walking quickly again.

“Ay, would you stop fucking running! For fuck’s sake.”

“You wanna fucking run after me for the next 30 to 40 years too?” he asks, facing you again. There’s a challenging look on his face as though he actually expects you to reply, as though you didn’t scream your answer through the Alibi Room that night.

“Yes, I fucking will,whether you like it or not! So you better get fucking used to it.”

His face falls as the words leave your mouth, and the sadness you see is a stab in your heart since the need to protect him is anchored in your bones by now. He looks at you for a short second, his eyes watery, but he quickly casts his eyes down at the floor, shaking his head. It reminds you of the way he looked when he admitted himself into the psych ward, when he couldn’t really look you in the eyes, when he looked like he was about to dissolve into the air at any second.

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you and him, and place your hands on either side of his head. You glance around to see if anybody is watching you – a habit you just haven’t been able to stop yet. Nobody seems to be anywhere near, though, so you lean in and place a kiss on his lips, trying to reassure him. The kiss is short and sweet and you realize it makes you feel more at ease as much as you hope it does him. You pull back again and look him in the eyes.

“I trust you, Ian. You can do this.”

“What if I don’t trust myself?”

He looks small as he says it, and it breaks your heart because if there’s one word you don’t associate with Ian Gallagher, it’s fucking _small_.

“Then just trust me,” you tell him and he closes his eyes.

The look of relief on his face lifts some weight off your heart and shoulders, and it hits you that he _needs_ you. The realization makes you feel all sorts of things that you never thought you could feel, and you close your eyes, leaning your forehead against his. You’ve been there with him through the good, the bad and the worst, but taking care of him is still new to you, so having the confirmation that you seem to be doing it right is a relief. You are already aware that it’s going to be far from easy – this morning’s events still fresh in your mind – but you know with a fierce certainty that Ian is worth it.

\---

The Gallagher house is empty when you arrive, the silence ringing through the empty space. You have no idea where everybody is, but it doesn’t matter because there’s only one Gallagher that you truly care about and he’s following you into the kitchen, his steps slowing down the closer he gets to the can of pills that you got out of your pocket. He takes off his jacket and throws it on a chair and it reminds you that you’re still wearing yours so you take it off as well.

His eyes are darting around the room, looking anywhere but where those three orange bottles standing on the kitchen counter are, and you try to imagine what he must feel like. Unlike before, when his mask had been in place, you can see the emotions on his face: fear, frustration, and helplessness, and you understand that you will never really know this part of him but you don’t mind and hope that he doesn’t either. Right now he’s only postponing the inevitable, though, so you think it’s probably time to just rip off the band aid.

You tear your eyes away from where he’s standing on the opposite side of the counter, his back to the big table, and you get out a glass to fill it with water. When you turn around again, he’s staring at the bottles so intensely it looks like he wants to set them on fire with his gaze alone. His knuckles are white from the grip he has on the wood of the worktop, and his eyebrows are drawn together. There’s no reaction from him when you call his name softly, so you set down the mug and walk around the counter. You put a hand on his shoulder and try again.

This time he jumps and looks at you wide-eyed. You react on impulse, pulling him into your arms and you kind of regret that you started doing it only recently because it does feel pretty nice. Especially when he starts to melt into you, bringing his arm around your ribcage and holding you closer and closer. You just stay there for a while, letting the world run its course without you participating, chests pressing into each other with every inhale.

 _Ripping off the band aid_ , you remember and pull back a little. Your hands don’t leave his body because you felt him relax against your skin, and you don’t want to take that away from him, although it’s as much to his benefit as is it to yours. The bags under his eyes are still as prominent as they had been when you visited him in the psych ward four days ago, and his whole frame looks exhausted, but his eyes are returning to the shade of green they used to be. You lock eyes with him, and there’s a questioning look on his face. When you nod, he exhales shakily and turns his body towards the counter again.

You pretend not to notice how his hands shake when he takes one pill out of each bottle, when he puts them in his mouth, and when he drinks from the glass of water. He looks at you once he puts down the glass down and you do the first thing that comes to your mind and kiss him. Ian immediately responds, warm, soft lips moving against yours, and you hope this comforts him as much as it comforts you.

“I’m gonna lie down,” he whispers, your foreheads touching and his lips brushing against yours as he speaks.

“Okay.”

You follow him up the stairs and into his room. You both undress to your boxers and tank tops. He gets on the bed and under the covers, pressing himself against the wall so you have the space to climb in as well. Not for the first time you ask yourself why you’re here, in this house, with this fucking tiny bed but he hasn’t said anything that would indicate he wants to leave, so you stay and deal with it. His back is leaning against the wall, facing you and you wonder if now might be the time to finally tell him in person the three words you left on his voicemail. You know they’re true, and what happened since then hasn’t changed anything.

You open your mouth and hold his hand but suddenly you notice that it’s trembling and it doesn’t stop even when you entwine your fingers together. When you look back at his face, there’s a lone tear falling down his cheek, and you almost start crying yourself, but you can’t afford that now, so you brush his tear away, place a gentle kiss on his forehead, and wrap both your arms around him. It’s not just his hand, but his entire body that is trembling against you, and you wish for nothing more than that his illness was something that you could beat the living shit out of, or even kill. It’s not though, so you place a kiss on his shoulder.

“I can’t fucking stop it,” he rasps out and you don’t know if he’s talking about the disorder or the shaking.

“It’s just a side effect, it’ll be gone in a second.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Surely enough, after a few minutes that feel much, much longer, the shaking subsides and it leaves both of you exhausted. You release him from your iron grip to look at his face.

“Okay?” you ask and he nods. It’s enough for now.

He pushes you a little so that you lie on your back, and he puts his head on your chest and drapes his left arm around you, a position so familiar that you get overwhelmed by nostalgia. You two used to lie like this a lot during the summer, especially when Ian couldn’t sleep, just lying there and talking – or not talking. It’s comforting, and you don’t know if he did it on purpose or not, but it feels good either way. You brush your hand over his hair and you notice pretty quickly when his breath evens out and he falls asleep.

You don’t exactly know how to deal with this, with him – not really. You desperately want to help him because he’s not alone – _he’s got me_ – but it’s a war you have to fight without weapons, and that is not in your field of expertise. So you do the only thing that you really can do right now and tighten your arm around him to let him know that you’re here, and you’re not going anywhere, hoping that that’s enough. Always enough

**Author's Note:**

> [caputdraconis.tumblr.com](caputdraconis.tumblr.com)


End file.
